by Ella Frank
Breathe, he said to himself as he felt his chest tighten. You are not going to pass out on fucking television.
And then, keeping his eyes on Graham, Julien said, “I’d rather not say.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Brady said from behind, and Julien curled his hands into tight fists. “Of course the French guy is a pain in the ass.”
Let it go, Julien ordered himself, as he concentrated on staying upright. Ignore him.
Graham narrowed his eyes on Julien, and then crossed his arms over his burly chest. His bald head looked spit-polished shiny, and his chef’s jacket barely made it across his impressive barrel chest as he stared Julien down.
Julien figured that Graham thought the intimidating stance would work, but he was wrong. Julien didn’t give a fuck what happened to him. He was doing this for one reason and one reason only, and he had fiery hair and a much more intimidating scowl than this guy.
“Thornton,” Graham said, “I need something more than that.”
“Why?” Julien said. “The competition called for me to cook my most meaningful meal, not share my whole sob story with a bunch of people I don’t know. Here is my meal: cheese soufflé. The best fucking cheese soufflé you will ever taste, when you decide to try it. If that’s not enough, then send me the hell home.”
Julien knew the editing room would be going nuts with the bleeping out of his words, but he wasn’t about to talk about shit he didn’t want to because it would be good for ratings. No way. Fuck that.
“Can anyone say drama queen?” Brady said, and Julien finally turned his head to glare at the asshole mouthing off behind him.
Brady was a tool of epic proportions and threatened by anyone who knew how to boil an egg. He’d been gunning for Julien since the auditions, and Julien would be damned if he let the fucker provoke him into doing something he didn’t want to—and talking about Jacquelyn was one of those things.
“Thinks he’s better than everyone else. Has since he got here,” Brady said to their fellow contestants before looking back to him, and Julien cocked his head to the side and ran his eyes up and down the jock—minus a cock.
“Better than you, that’s for sure.”
“Just say who the meal’s for already, Thornton. Quit all the dramatics.”
“How about none of your fucking business? That’s who it’s for.”
“Hey,” Graham shouted from opposite Julien, recapturing his attention. “Last I recall, this is my show and you are here because you want to win Chef Master. So is that still the case, or do you want to leave, Thornton?”
Julien’s jaw ticked as he glared across at the host—and one of the most well-respected chefs in the world—and when he saw a flicker of compassion in Graham’s eyes, Julien’s temper bubbled to the surface in full force.
Fuck that. There was no way he was going to be known as the charity case on this show. That was not why he was there. He was there to prove himself and get a goddamn date with Priest—to better hisfuckingself.
“That’s up to you, isn’t it?” Julien said. “But I’m not telling you shit other than that soufflé will be the best thing you taste in here tonight. So take it or leave it.” And without another word, Julien turned on his heel and stormed away from Graham.
He needed to get out of there. He needed some fucking air. He didn’t give a shit that Graham was calling out his name, and just before he shoved open the doors to the exit, he heard Brady say, “Jesus. His name really does suit him. Thornton. What a prick.”
Five seconds after that, Graham Boyd picked up his fork, sank it into the fluffy soufflé, and Julien had been crowned the winner of that night’s challenge by proxy.
After that, he was forever dubbed “the Prick,” a name much less sad and pathetic than the man hidden inside the prickly exterior, and a name he found he had no trouble living up to at all…
MERDE, THAT HADN’T been one of his most shining moments, that was for sure—kind of like this morning, when he went all pissy and standoffish with Robbie. But it was the moment that had landed him on viewers’ radars—and, more importantly, Priest’s. After that episode, he’d sought out his surly lawyer, and in a rather spectacular moment of stupidity, thought it would be a great idea to beg him for help.
Julien shook his head, remembering the night well. He had been a mess. But Priest did help him. He wrote up a privacy clause that to this day was ironclad, and still used, with any person Julien came into contact with.
No matter the interviewer, the topic, or the reason for it, it was understood that he was never to be asked about his personal or private life. His family, which now included Priest and Robbie, were off-limits.
The revolving door alerted Julien of Gail and her crew’s arrival, and as the team from the magazine piled into his restaurant, Julien’s palms began to sweat.
Dieu. Okay, I can do this. I’ve just got to keep it together a little longer. Then it will be over and I can go home to my men.
A tall woman, made taller by a pair of cherry-red heels, came through the door first. She wore a black pencil skirt and a blouse the same color as her heels tucked in at a trim waist, and Julien smiled at Gail Knight.
She walked over to him with a sure stride that came from years in heels that high, and the swing she added to her hips spoke volumes of her self-confidence and knowledge of just how well her skirt showed off her voluptuous curves. Her ebony hair was perfectly straight and sat an inch above her shoulders, and her almond-shaped eyes added an exotic quality to her stunning features. Gail Knight was gorgeous.
“Julien Thornton,” she said, and held her hand out to him.
Julien took it and lowered his mouth to brush a kiss to her knuckles. “Bonjour Miss Knight.”
“Oh, that accent never gets old. It’s just divine,” she said with a little laugh as Julien released her hand.
“Merci. I appreciate you coming out to JULIEN this afternoon.”
“Are you kidding? It’s our pleasure. We haven’t had such a high-profile restaurant opening here in Chicago for years.”
Julien ushered Gail into the lounge area and toward one of the more private booths where he thought they could do the interview, and then he’d take the crew around for photos of the place afterward.
“I’m thrilled to be here. I love Chicago,” Julien said, as he waited for her to take a seat and then sat down opposite her. “Although, I must confess, I’m excited for the warmer temperatures to arrive.”
Gail laughed, and the sound was almost musical as she let her eyes roam around the space. “I understand that. Our winters can be harsh, and for someone used to L.A. temperatures, it must be extra rough.”
“It’s been a learning curve, that’s for sure. But someone very wise told me it’s all about layers, layers, and more layers.” Julien smiled at the thought of Robbie that first night after CRUSH.
Oui, if he could just focus on things like that, things that made him happy, then he just might be able to get through this without hyperventilating.
“This place is exquisite,” Gail said as her eyes finally came back to his. “I understand all of your restaurants are different? So they aren’t themed in any way.”
“The only theme, really, is the European feel to them, but beyond that, non. Each restaurant is distinct and created to fit whatever vibe the building it’s in makes me feel.”
Gail put her purse on the seat and pulled out a slim recorder to place on the table. Julien’s eyes dropped to it, the ease he’d felt a few seconds ago slipping through his fingers at the thought of anything he said, even by accident, being on record in some form forever.
“Is this okay?” Gail said, gesturing to the recorder, and Julien licked his lips and brought his eyes back to hers. He was worrying over nothing. Of course it was okay. He’d done a hundred interviews and never once slipped up. Now would be no different.
“It’s fine,” Julien said, and made himself smile as she slid it to the middle of the table.
“Great.
I find it helpful. My memory isn’t always accurate, and writing it down I find I miss some of the best comments or pieces of information.”
“That makes sense,” Julien said, and as he sat back in his seat, Lise came out with a carafe of chilled water. “Would you like something to drink?”
Gail looked at his manager and nodded. “Yes, thank you.”
Lise turned over Gail’s glass and filled it, and then did the same to him, and before she walked off, she mouthed, You okay? To which Julien inclined his head and said thank you, letting her know that, right now, he was.
“Are you ready to get started?” Gail asked. “I thought we could get the interview out of the way and then I’ll take a look around.”
“Oui, that’s what I’d thought too.”
“Fantastic. Then let’s begin.”
For the next thirty or so minutes, Gail asked him all the standard questions.
What made him pick Chicago as the third JULIEN location? This was easily answered simply but vaguely: “I wanted a change and decided to move out here. It was a no-brainer to open a new JULIEN location when I realized I would be staying.”
Was he now going to be permanently based out of Chicago as opposed to L.A., where his career took off?
Again, simple enough.
“Yes. I don’t really enjoy flying, so for the time being, I have an extremely talented gentleman, Louis, as my executive chef, who is more than capable of running the show for me back in L.A.”
Did he attribute his restaurants’ successes to his fame or the quality of the meals served there? Okay, this one took every PR lesson he’d ever been given back in the day to bite his tongue because…how insulting. Nonetheless, he wasn’t the same man he’d been years ago when he blurted out whatever he wanted, and he wouldn’t do that tonight.
“I believe the restaurants each speak for themselves. The food is superb and our chefs cook nothing but the absolute best in refined European cuisine. We have a world-class cellar in each of our locations, and you won’t find more gracious hospitality than that of the staff at any of the JULIEN locations.”
“If they’re anything like the owner, I believe you,” Gail said, sending a winning smile his way.
Flirting wasn’t going to work with him, though, not when she’d just implied his restaurants were mainly popular due to his celebrity status. Julien ground his teeth together. “Merci.”
“I have to confess,” Gail went on, “that French accent makes it very difficult to concentrate whenever it slips through. I know I’m not the only one who thinks so, either. It would be remiss of me not to talk to you about your run on Chef Master, where you gained a rather large following. And if I’m not mistaken, ninety percent of those were females, were they not?”
“I’m not exactly sure,” Julien said, and made sure to add a smile, even though he really couldn’t have cared less, considering he would’ve preferred his following to be one hundred percent male.
“Well, if I’m honest, I can certainly see why. Not only are you a world-class chef who has trained all around the globe with some of the greats, you’re also handsome, smart, and have a delicious accent.”
Julien shifted on his seat a little, feeling more uncomfortable with this line of questioning than he had the ones regarding the restaurant. Whenever reporters started in on his time on Chef Master, and consequently his status as a sex symbol, things usually turned personal. They wanted to know things like: was he single? Or they inevitably brought up—
“Your family. Let’s talk about them for a minute,” Gail said, and Julien felt his stomach drop to his feet. What was she doing? She’d been sent the privacy agreement. She knew the rules. Why was she bringing this up? But even as he sat there mute, Gail just kept right on talking. “They must be very proud of you and all that you’ve accomplished since that first episode, which aired, what is it, nearly eight years ago?”
Julien looked across the table at Gail and swore he could’ve counted each of her eyelashes, he was staring at her so hard, and when he still didn’t answer, she tried a different tactic.
“What about siblings?” Gail asked when it became clear he wasn’t going to answer, or was incapable of answering her—because right now, Julien felt as though his throat was closing in on itself. “Are you an only child? Or do you have brothers and sisters you show off to or compete with? I’m notorious for rubbing my accomplishments in my brother’s face.”
And that was it. That was all Julien could take.
“Stop talking,” he said in a voice that was barely audible, but Gail? She must’ve sensed she’d crossed a line or trodden on a landmine, because she zipped her lips quick. “This interview, it’s over.”
“Excuse me?” Gail said, but Julien was already sliding out of his seat and gripping the edge of the table as he got to his feet.
Once he was upright, he made sure to hold on to the back of the booth because his knees felt as though they were about to give out on him at any moment. “The interview. I’m canceling it. You can leave now.”
Julien knew he was being unbearably rude, but he didn’t give a fuck. He needed her to get out before he totally lost it and passed out at her feet, which he was in real danger of doing.
“But,” she said as she slid out of the booth and stood, “we’re not finished.”
“Oui,” Julien said. “We are. You can leave the way you came. If you have any further questions, you can contact Lise via our email. Goodbye.”
Before Gail could think of anything else to say, Julien turned and walked out of the lounge and down the hall to the kitchen, where he shoved through the stainless-steel doors and braced his hands on the counter in front of him.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
That was not how that was supposed to go today. Bad press was the last thing he needed weeks out from an opening, but as he stood there in the kitchen, Julien felt his legs give out and stumbled back to the wall.
As he slid down it, his ass hit the cold tile, and he raised his knees and lowered his head down between them.
Broken. He was so fucking broken. His entire body was shaking uncontrollably, and as he sat there in the silence of the kitchen, all he could hear in his head was Gail’s words: They must be very proud of you. What about siblings?
Julien shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on his breathing, and by the time he got himself under control, he had no clue how much time had passed. It could’ve been minutes. It could’ve been hours. And with an unsteady hand, he reached in his pocket for his cell phone and called the one person he knew would take him away from all of this. Who would help him escape his own damn self.
“Julien?” Priest said by way of greeting, and since Julien couldn’t seem to find his voice to speak he just sat there. “Julien? Where are you? The restaurant?”
Julien shut his eyes and focused on Priest’s voice. Focused on an image of his face and then…Robbie’s. If he could just get out of there, be somewhere else for a while, somewhere where he could stop thinking about every fucked-up thing for just one damn minute and maybe focus on the good, then maybe, just maybe, he could get through the night without having another attack. “Oui.”
“I’m coming for you. Don’t move.”
“Non, mon a—”
“Don’t. Move. That’s a fucking order, Julien. I’ll be there in…shit, in ten minutes.”
Then the line went dead. Julien placed the phone down on the tile beside him and waited for Priest to come find him and put him back together again.
Chapter Twelve
CONFESSION
I don’t want to go home. I want to forget.
PRIEST LOOKED ACROSS the center console of their Range Rover to where Julien was sitting staring out at the traffic passing by. He hadn’t said two words since Priest had arrived at the restaurant, made their apologies to Lise, and then ushered Julien out to the car. And now as they sat there in the dark confines of the SUV, Priest reached over to take Julien’s hand in his.
Ju
lien started slightly, and when he turned his head in Priest’s direction, he said, “Je suis désolé.”
Priest shook his head as he slipped his fingers through Julien’s and squeezed them. “Don’t apologize to me. You know I don’t need it.”
Julien looked down to their hands and then nodded.
“Are you going to tell me what happened in there this afternoon, mon cœur?”
Julien leaned his head back against the seat. His lips were pulled tight, and the side of his jaw ticked, his face a mask of torment as he thought about whatever had happened earlier.
“Julien?”
“Oui. It was…Gail, that was the reporter’s name. She started out nice enough. It felt good, comfortable. We ran through the usual Q&As, but then she started to ask questions I didn’t want to answer. Questions she knew she wasn’t supposed to ask. I’ll never understand why reporters think they can get away with that shit when it’s clearly stated in the contract I sign that I will not discuss my private life.”
“So you told her to get the fuck out.”
Julien’s head whipped around so that he was facing Priest, and when he saw the crooked grin on Priest’s lips, Julien shook his head.
“I did,” he admitted, and then brought his hands up to cover his face. “I lost it, Joel. I…”
“Julien?”
“She just kept pushing and pushing, and asking all these questions about my parents and Jacquelyn, and after last night, I—”
“Julien,” Priest said, his voice firm now, wanting to cut through the rambling words and panic he could see forming behind Julien’s eyes. “What did happen last night?”
Julien went to turn away, but before he could, Priest reached out and took hold of his chin, keeping his face angled toward him. He pinned Julien with a look that demanded he tell the truth, and finally Julien said, “Nothing. It was just—”
“Really?” Priest interrupted.
Julien opened his mouth, and Priest leaned over the middle of the car until only inches separated them.